Sarah was chosen as the winner of the short story category during our February 2017 Love Stinks writing contest.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
He knows when he walks in through the door that something\u2019s wrong.<\/p>\n
Maybe it\u2019s the way she\u2019s sitting on the couch, hunched over, with her head buried in her hands, the lights in the room dim and the week-old flowers on the coffee table shedding petals like scabs. Maybe it\u2019s the way she doesn\u2019t look up at him, the way her shoulders tense and she takes a deep breath. Maybe it\u2019s the way she doesn\u2019t say anything, even as he settles on the other end of the couch, waiting.<\/p>\n
Maybe it\u2019s the way she doesn\u2019t have to say anything at all.<\/p>\n
The silence is perfect, listless, stilly, cutting through their thoughts, the air around them, sharpening their awareness of each other. Finally, she speaks. \u201cWe need to talk.\u201d<\/p>\n
He clenches his teeth, traps the sigh inside of his lips, swallows it down. \u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI did something.\u201d She says it like a question, like she\u2019s waiting for him to answer her, but he says nothing, doesn\u2019t even move to look at her. \u201cI didn\u2019t mean to. You have to believe me.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI do.\u201d It isn\u2019t even a lie, not this time. \u201cIt\u2019s okay.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d the venom in the word draws his gaze like it\u2019s a compulsion, an obligation so ingrained inside of himself that he can\u2019t think of anything else to do. She shakes her head, hands moving with the immense effort of cradling her skull. \u201cIt\u2019s not.\u201d She lifts her forehead from its fleshy throne of fingers to look at over at him, the ghosts in her eyes dancing like they\u2019re in a prison made of red iron slippers. \u201cI\u2019m trying to tell you I\u2019ve been having an affair.\u201d<\/p>\n
The dancing ghosts crawl into his chest, their greedy hands wrapping around his heart\u2014pulling, squeezing\u2014until he can\u2019t breathe, head heavy, foggy eyes unseeing; he closes them, opens the prison of his mouth and swallows down air that tastes toxic. \u201cI know. I\u2019ve known for a while.\u201d His voice doesn\u2019t break; he opens his eyes.<\/p>\n
Silent voices, words unsaid, shaking hands.<\/p>\n
\u201cI never meant for this to happen. I never meant to hurt you.\u201d<\/p>\n
Platitudes, platitudes, platitudes.<\/p>\n
At last, he lets out his sigh, feeling it all the way to his bones, deeper still, like he and it have become one, as if he could expel himself from his life as easily as air expelled from lungs. \u201cI know. I know.\u201d Neither speaks again for a while longer, until he looks back to his former lover. He once thought that they would spend their lives together: he once thought they\u2019d built a boat together; cast their hearts to sea. Like they\u2019d be able to overcome the waves and the tide and the current that would rage against them, like the wind would never be able to shift them from their course. But this must be the part where their ship wrecks, where he\u2019s left stranded and alone. He\u2019ll be the castaway, left drifting. \u201cHow did this happen?\u201d<\/p>\n
It\u2019s rhetorical, of course, but she answers with a shake of her head. \u201cI wasn\u2019t happy.\u201d<\/p>\n
He nods, pretends to be steady while everything inside of him quakes apart. \u201cI wasn\u2019t either.\u201d He steels his nerves. \u201cWhen did we become so unhappy together?\u201d<\/p>\n
It hangs in the air, souring their already rainy expressions, until she mutters a soft\u2014so soft that he can barely hear it\u2014\u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d<\/p>\n
And that\u2019s it. That\u2019s the most important thing either one of them has said so far, because it\u2019s honest, and real, and so\u00a0painful<\/em>\u00a0that he feels the hand on his heart constrict again, again, a nagging, bitter thing that he can\u2019t escape.<\/p>\n Deep breaths, clasping fingers, wet cheeks.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry.\u201d<\/p>\n Recompense, recompense, recompense.<\/p>\n Time passes, like it must, but slowly. Minutes gradually bleeding into minutes under the cruel hand of the antique grandfather clock in the next room\u2014ticking, ticking, ticking\u2014like it\u2019s chained up to his heartbeat.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m going to keep loving you for a little while longer, if that\u2019s okay.\u201d His voice breaks and he drops his head into his hands, tries to hide from this, from her, from the knowledge that this was always the inevitable outcome. Fingers smooth a line down his back\u2014hers\u2014and even now, after everything, her touch is nothing but a comfort.<\/p>\n \u201cYes.\u201d She breathes, whispers, voice breaking. \u201cIt\u2019s okay, of course it\u2019s okay. I never stopped loving you.\u201d He nods into his hands. He knows; he believes. \u201cI still love you.\u201d<\/p>\n That\u2019s the worst part, really. That they love each other enough to walk away, to let each other find the happiness they no longer have together. The sting of her betrayal is nothing compared to how he feels about himself; the slow agony of knowing his love isn\u2019t enough, maybe never was.<\/p>\n \u201cI hope you\u2019re happy with him. I really do.\u201d<\/p>\n Maybe they\u2019re the first words he\u2019s really meant all night, the truth of them the only thought flitting through his mind. Maybe it\u2019s because he does love her, still, and after everything, still wants this person he loves to be happy, even if it\u2019s without him. Not having her anymore will be like losing a limb or an organ and he doesn\u2019t think he\u2019ll be able to figure out how to survive without it, without her, but he knows he has to try.<\/p>\n \u201cI wish it could be you.\u201d She whispers, the words catching in her throat, quivering, voice breaking, the but it\u2019s not<\/em> hanging heavy in the air.<\/p>\n He holds her hand when his fingers start to tremble, wipes her tears when they start to trail out, holds her close one last time when the sound of her aching sobs sinks into his bones.<\/p>\n The ghost of what they had exists inside of him, pounding, raging against its cage of flesh like it could beat its way out through his chest, like it could rip apart the scattered pieces of their shipwrecked vessel. He knows he\u2019ll keep picking up all those pieces for as long as he keeps loving her, navigating those dark, stilly waters until he\u2019s finally free from the storm. It won\u2019t be easy\u2014might even be the hardest thing he\u2019ll ever have to do\u2014but he\u2019ll do it.<\/p>\n New waters, setting sail, all alone.<\/p>\n He knows when he walks out through the door that something\u2019s right.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Sarah was chosen as the winner of the short story category during our February 2017 Love Stinks writing contest. He knows when he walks in through the door that something\u2019s wrong. Maybe it\u2019s the way she\u2019s sitting on the couch, hunched over, with her head buried in her hands, the lights in the room […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":44,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-642","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.umflint.edu\/writingcenter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/642","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.umflint.edu\/writingcenter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.umflint.edu\/writingcenter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.umflint.edu\/writingcenter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/44"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.umflint.edu\/writingcenter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=642"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.umflint.edu\/writingcenter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/642\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":643,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.umflint.edu\/writingcenter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/642\/revisions\/643"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.umflint.edu\/writingcenter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=642"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.umflint.edu\/writingcenter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=642"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.umflint.edu\/writingcenter\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=642"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}